UC-NRLF 


B   14   722   513 


CHILD  OF  THE  AMAZONS 

AND   OTHER    POEMS 


ST  MAX  EASTMAN 

ENJOYMENT    OF    POETRY 


CHILD 
OF  THE  AMAZONS 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 
MAX  EASTMAN 


NEW  YORK  tf  LONDON 

MITCHEL,L  KENNERLEY 
1913 


COPYRIGHT    1913    BY    MITCHELL    KINNERLEY 


OF  J.  J-  LITTLE  &  IYES  COMPANY,  N?W  YORK 


CHILD  OF  THE  AMAZONS 


281422 


The  Amazons,  according  to  a  fable  not  without  his 
toric  significance,  were  a  tribe  of  female  warriors  who 
dwelt  upon  the  river  Thermodon,  near  the  Euxine  Sea. 
Annually,  to  perpetuate  their  race,  they  joined  the  men 
of  a  fighting  nation  upon  Mount  Caucasus;  but  of  the 
offspring  of  these  unions  they  saved  only  the  girls.  Their 
patron  deity  was  the  virgin  Artemis,  who  is  here  identi 
fied  with  a  star  visible  at  dawn.  Their  queen,  Penthe- 
nlea,  was  slain  by  Achilles  in  the  fight  at  Troy. 


CHILD   OF   THE    AMAZONS 


WHEN  in  the  orient  the  almighty  sun 
Swings  up  his  burning  shield,  and  brandishes 
A  shaft  of  light  against  the  leagued  skies, 
When  the  sea  smoketh,  and  the  forest  oaks 
Forget  the  storm  gone  over  them  and  tremble 
In  the  furious  rising  of  the  dawn — 
Then  join  her  councillors  to  counsel  war! 
Then  throng  they  out  unto  the  forest  old, 
The  high  and  awful  chamber  of  their  queen, 
Bringing  in  sinewy  hands  their  iron  spears, 
Her  captains — who  are  women  old  and  wild, 
Homeless,  unchaste,  worn  with  the  battle  anger 
And  the  weight  of  weapons  swung  in  heat. 
No  mirth,  no  music,  no  barbaric  splendor 
Doth  explain  them,  or  adorn  their  pride. 
Scarred  and  unloved  and  terrible  they  are! 
Yet  not  the  experienced  earth  doth  go  thro'  heaven 
With  a  more  tempered  majesty  and  power, 


7 


CHILD  OF  THE  AMAZONS 

Than  they  go  thro'  the  verdurous  colonnades 
And  living  aisles  of  their  uncovered  temple. 

For  where  the  trees  unveil  unto  the  dawn 
A  summit  old,  a  windy  sanctuary, 
There  doth  the  royal  warrior  summon  them. 
There  by  her  savage  altar  doth  she  stand, 
Immense  with  beauty,  like  a  sexless  god, 
Imperial  oaks  lifting  their  arms  behind  her, 
And  the  East  nourishing  her  limbs  with  light. 

She,  as  they  come,  doth  lift  her  voice  to  them 
In  high  and  ardent  music: 

'O  ye  powers, 

Free-clad,  armed  like  the  sun  with  javelins! 
Deeds  would  become  you  well,  so  well  arrayed! 
Have  ye  not  lingered  by  this  stream  enough, 
And  paced  along  the  murmurous  strand,  and  dozed, 
And  watched  this  bay  yawning  beside  the  sea? 
O,  are  ye  sick  with  hunger  for  events? 
Then  ye  shall  have  them!    Ye  shall  ride  with  me 


CHILD  OF  THE  AMAZONS 

To  the  adventure  on  the  plains  of  Troy, 
Where  now  the  proudest  of  the  oppressors  moors 
His  ships,  and  marshals  his  vainglorious  arms, 

To  capture  that  which  he  could  never  hold 

The  cool  rebellious  soul  of  her  that  scorned  him!' 

So  her  passion  sings,  and  they  with  arms 
Ring  the  reply.     She  lifts  a  regal  spear 
For  silence,  and  she  saith: 

'Who  would  excel 

In  war  must  first  excel  in  government. 
Yet  here  a  very  child  defies  our  law: 
That  singer,  maker  of  the  battle  hymns, 
Thyone,  whom  with  every  hope  we  loved — 
Always  the  fleetest  of  the  dancing  girls, 
And  strongest  when  they  wrestle  in  the  meadow — 
Even  Thyone,  out  of  battle  born, 
Doth  shirk  the  enterprise  of  soldiery! 
And  'tis  the  common  tale — the  mind  bewitched 
By  some  high  warrior,  the  body  too 


CHILD  OF  THE  AMAZONS 

Grows  lazy  and  unmuscular  with  love! 
Yet  never  does  she  lose  her  spirit  bold, 
But  dares  revolt,  and  plead  against  my  will, 
That  she  may  have  the  amazing  soldier  with  her, 
Dwell  with  him,  as  do  the  nations  against  whom, 
Implacable,  we  swing  the  scourge  of  war  I 
This  hour  she  comes  to  you  to  plead,  and  feel 
Your  scorn/ 

She  paused;  and  to  them  there  appeared, 
Like  a  swift  spirit  from  the  shadowy  trees, 
A  form  as  fresh  as  the  remembered  winds 
Of  dawn — Thyone,  called  the  Sea-wild  Maid. 
Upright  and  young  before  the  queen,  she  led 
All  eyes  in  silence  brief  unto  her  own. 

'I  come  unarmed  into  the  council,  Queen. 
I  prayed  not  to  the  unlistening  star  this  morn, 
But  to  a  warm  God  whom  I  have  called  Love. 
Love  hath  disarmed  me/ 


IO 


CHILD   OF   THE  AMAZONS 

Softly  thus  she  spoke, 
Yet  in  her  voice  was  more  of  empire  than 
Of  love.     And  for  a  breath,  no  answer — till 
The  queen,  with  equal  calm,  said: 

'We  have  heard 

How  mellow  you  have  grown  these  Summer  days! 
We  called  you  here  to  sing  us  a  sweet  lay, 
We  being  tired  of  duty.     Will  you  sing?' 

Her  irony  the  girl  dismayed  with  candor 
When  she  said,  raising  her  eyes: 

'O  Queen, 

To  me  the  morning  is  not  jubilant 
Tho'  all  her  wander-winged  minstrels  sing, 
And  the  swreet  insects  pipe  their  joys  aloft; 
To  me  the  day  is  dreary,  tho'  his  light 
Flows  down  around  me  as  of  old. — But  when 
The  wind  herds  forward  many  clouds  along 
The  pastures  of  the  sun,  I  welcome  them; 
And  in  the  arms  of  night  my  sorrow  sleepeth.' 


II 


CHILD   OF  THE   AMAZONS 

'Yea!    But  come,  the  story!    Tell  us  that! 
Unto  whose  power  art  thou  this  listless  captive?' 

'I  think  thou  knowest  that  he  is  a  king.' 

'They  say  you  sit  among  the  meadow  grass 
And  sing  to  him — is  this  thy  exercise? 
Thou  big  and  silly  child!' 

'Most  scornful  Queen, 
Not  long  we  sat  amid  the  blossoming  grass 
Before  the  sea  rose  and  came  over  us, 
And  we  wrere  drowned,  and  lay  together,  still, 
Without  breath. — Spake  I  with  a  child's  voice?' 

'A  voice  that  angers  me — the  voice  of  love 
And  of  a  dreamer  lost!' 

'Yea,  I  am  lost!' 

'Hast  thou  no  will,  no  hunger  after  deeds 
Swift  and  heroic?' 


12 


CHILD  OF  THE  AMAZONS 

'O  my  heart  is  hungry! 

All  my  life  is  swift  and  wild  with  passion! 
It  is  a  flame  carried  in  the  wind!' 

Unto  her  cry  her  body  gave 
All  eloquence;  her  gestures  seemed  to  move 
On  infinite  curves  inherited  of  gods. 
And  the  dark  warriors  stirred;  but  not  their  queen, 
Who  cried: 

'Darest  thou  at  this  shrine  defy 
Our  law,  which  is  the  aged  word  of  God? 
Fearest  thou  not  the  empire  of  these  armed? 
They  call  it  traitorous  to  smuggle  in 
Outlawed  and  poisonous  thoughts!     They  know 
Your  kind!     Think  you  this  nation  has  grown  great 
Without  the  trembling  public  death  of  traitors? 
Think  you  we  drag  our  cowards  on  to  glory?' 

Thyone  said:     'Am  I  a  coward,  in 
That  I  defy  the  dreadful  laws  of  God?' 


CHILD   OF  THE  AMAZONS 

'Ay,  they  are  dreadful!'  cried  the  queen,  and  shook 
Her  lofty  spear  in  fury,  beautiful. 
'And  thou  shalt  swiftly  know  their  dreadf ulness ! 
Ay,  thou  shalt  hear  the  Law  of  Amazons, 
And  learn  what  romance  sleepeth  on  the  tune! 
We  lie  not  in  the  vice  of  love!     We  breed 
At  night,  at  morn  we  are  away  to  wars! 
O  hath  thy  blood  no  fiery  wish  to  fight, 
To  fly  with  the  light-armed  over  the  plain?' 

'My  blood  doth  burn  against  the  sacrifice, 
To  momentary  deeds,  of  passionate 
Lifelong  desire,  and  the  deep  hopes  of  love! 
Is  this  that  famous  freedom  that  thy  law 
Doth  vaunt?     O  is  this  liberty,  to  lose 
For  liberty  all  that  the  heart  desires?' 

'Thou  piteous  and  pleading  soldier!     Dost 
Thou  hope  to  whirl  a  spear  with  lovelorn  muscle? 
Thou  canst  dishonor  time  with  languid  talk, 
O  Easy-tongue,  but  thou  wilt  alter  not 


CHILD   OF  THE   AMAZONS 

The  wish  of  God.    For  I  am  not  thy  judge, 
But  Artemis,  unpassioned,  unsubdued. 

"Have  ye  the  virgin's  heart!" — saith  Artemis. 
"Needs  must  *ye  give  your  bodies,  hostages 
Unto  mortality — give  not  your  souls! 
This  be  the  chastity  of  Amazons! 
Exiled,  who  forfeits  this,  and  from  you  scourged, 
Shall  seek  among  tyrannic  nations  that 
Inactive   servitude  which  ye  renounce!" — 

'Thus  reads  the  immortal  law;  the  choice  is  thine. 
Thou  canst  find  out  thy  way  unto  thy  lord, 
Succumb  to  him,  thy  vigorous  spirit  all, 
To  tend  his  fire  and  wipe  his  fireside  gods, 
And  be  to  him  the  softness  of  a  couch — 
So  be  he  deign  thee  thy  sweet  sips  of  love! 
Our  souls  shall  drink  the  flaming  wine  of  deeds! 
And  thou  not  with  us?     O  consult  thy  heart! 
Consult  thy  heart,  and  bring  thine  answer  when 
The  light  again   is  swelling  in  the  East!' 


CHILD   OF   THE   AMAZONS 


II 


In  the  mild-mannered  beauty  of  the  morn, 
When  birds  sing  eastward  and   their  throats  are  filled 
With  song,  and  in  a  shrill  continual  chant 
The  little  people  of  the  grass  profess 
Their  wakefulness  unto  the  slumbering  earth, 
Then  doth  the  sea  her  song  perpetual 
Relinquish,  and  lieth  down  whispering 
Peace  to  the  patient  sands,  and  listeneth. 
On  such  a  morn,  and  at  the  gentle  hour 
Of  opening  eyes,  Thyone  came  unto 
The  council,  armed,  and  in  her  hand  the  spear. 
Yet  as  she  stept  across  the  grass  her  feet 
Were  languid,  and  her  eyes  looked  down,  lest  they 
Too  tearfully  reflect  the  light  of  dawn. 

Where,  O  thou  soul  rebellious,  goest  thou? 
What  potentate  hath  power  o'er  thee  but  joy? 
Hearest  thou  not  Love  wandering  forlorn 

16 


CHILD   OF  THE   AMAZONS 

Upon  the  mountain  meadows  calling  thee? 
Hearest  thou  not  the  future  calling  thee? 
Must  thy  bright  hopes  expire  while  they  are  born, 
As  dewdrops  scatter  at  the  wink  of  morn? 

So  sings  her  mind  to  her  the  while  she  moves 
In  sorrow,  carrying  a  drooping  spear. 
Yet  when  she  comes  in  sight  of  them,  who  stand 
In  cruel  panoply  around  their  queen, 
Drinking  her  lust  of  action,  eyeing  her, 
Holding  the  solemn  jubilee  of  war — 
Then  doth  Thyone  raise  her  face  to  meet 
The  morning  light,  her  limbs  spring  firm  with  pride, 
And  in  her  eyes  the  imperial  will  of  God 
Flasheth  again,  as  on  her  arms  his  signal 
Gleams.     She  lifts  her  spear  against  the  sun, 
And  dawns  upon  that  resolute  array, 
A  victor,  and  a  soul  compelling  them. 

'O  Queen  and  stormy  counsellors  of  war — 
Unto  the  temple  hall  a  warrior  comes! 


CHILD   OF   THE   AMAZONS 

I  join  the  music  of  your  concourse  wild! 

Yet  unto  thee,  thou  sovereign  cold,  I  say 

That  I  obey,  but  honor  not,  thy  will. 

Thou  art  my  fate,  and  with  thy  iron  arm 

Dost  point  to  an  intolerable  choice. 

A  blazed  tree  upon  the  forking  road 

Thou  art;  at  early  morn  I  pause  by  thee, 

My  tearless  eyes  sending  their  sight  eastward 

Up  to  the  mountain  pastures  of  our  love, 

The  hills,  the  water-meadows,  and  the  woods — 

O  God  in  heaven  keep  them  beautiful! 

O  high  farewell  to  you,  ye  Summer  Hours! 

O  Romance,  idle,  sweet,  and  transitory! 

Yea,  I  can  say  a  strong  farewell  to  you! 

I'd  learned  ere  now,  in  the  long  hour  of  gloom, 

Your  being  is  to  be  but  vanishing! 

Yet  O,  beyond  you,  and  beyond  the  hills, 

There  are  the  regions  of  the  surely  blest! 

And  travelling  onward,  I  would  come  like  dawn 


18 


CHILD   OF  THE   AMAZONS 

Into  the  land  of  mothers,  where  the  hours 
Serene  and  elevated  wait  for  me! 

'Thou,  warlike  Queen,  hast  thou  ne'er  nestled  down 
To  earth  with  thy  blood  singing,  and  thy  limbs 
Oppressed  with  joy!     Hast  thou  not  sobbed  with  wonder, 
Not  known  the  sudden  motion  in  the  night, 
The  doubt,  the  expectancy,  the  terror  beautiful? 
Yea,  thou  hast  known  them!     And  thou  hast  brought 

forth 

A  very  little  body  like  thine  own, 
And  touched  and  loved  him  for  the  dimple,  and 
The  ring  of  blue  between  his  half-wide  lids! 
Yea,  thou  hast  had  him  torn  from  thy  wild  arms 
By  these  unshakable  laws,  whereon  thou  stand'st 
To  judge  me!     O  my  Queen,  I  weep  for  thee, 
Though  thou  art  great,  and  seasoned  against  woe! 
Thy  character  is  iron,  I  cannot 
Shake  thee  with  memories,  nor  alter  thee 
With  an  incessant  quantity  of  tears!' 


CHILD   OF  THE   AMAZONS 

'Thyone/  saith  the  queen,  'thou  dost  express 
A  thing  the  law  knows  not,  remembers  not. 
And  thou  dost  speak  to  one  who  hath  long  since 
Been  tempered  in  the  tremulous  fires  of  love, 
And  hath  all  passion  borne  and  burned  with  it, 
And  issued  forth  as  steely  and  secure 
As  the  immortals  are  who  fan  such  flames! 
Therefore  I  counsel  thee  to  scourge  from  thee 
These  thoughts,  and  cease  thy  woeful  eloquence, 
And  give  thy  gift  of  music  on  the  tongue 
To  praise  and  sing  the  conquerors  of  firef 

To  whom,  with  quick  light-giving  eyes,  the  girl 
Replied : 

'With  gladness  will  I  sing  and  praise 
Thy  company  of  soldiers  whom  I  love, 
Whom  I  have  envied  since  that  windy  day 
When  first  they  startled  me,  and  set  my  eyes 
In  childhood  dancing.     I  have  never  lost, 
Even  in  the  slow  warm  winds  of  midnight  when 


20 


CHILD  OF  THE  AMAZONS 

His  voice  remembered  quivered  on  my  ear — 
I've  never  lost  my  love  for  thy  battalions! 
Heroic  joys  they  ever  offer  me — 
Those  visions  valorous  of  my  young  heart! 

'O  to  commandHhe  tumult  of  a  troop 
Of  battle  horses!  to  possess  that  space 
That  flees  like  wind  before  them  to  the  foe! 
To  come,  with  so  much  thunder  at  my  back, 
Into  the  fainting  noise  of  a  drawn  battle — 
Borne  on  a  stallion  uncontrollable 
And  racing  for  the  lead,  to  cling  to  him 
With  supple  limbs  that  feel  his  muscles  roll, 
And  with  free  arms  to  do  the  flying  deeds 
Of  cavalry!     O  God,  could  I  forget 
These  glories? — Or  the  more  precarious  joy, 
The  exuberance  of  danger,  when  at  night 
I,  like  the  hunting  leopard,  shall  creep  forth 
In  softness,  and  steal  in  upon  my  prey 
To  capture  him,  or  scout  in  solitude 
About  his  barracks! 

21 


CHILD  OF  THE  AMAZONS 

'O  I  love  to  live!- 

The  task  and  the  adventure,  toil  and  rest, 
And   mirth,   and   the  hot  news  of   accident! 
I  love  to  live,  impetuous,  for  joy 
And  woe,  a  life  of  action  unto  God! 
Triumphantly  I  choose  it!     I  renounce 
My  wish  of  love,  my  hope,  my  fruitful  years! 
For  who  would  be  the  consort  of  a  king, 
Subduer  of  the  earth,  and  be  subdued? 
Who  would  bring  into  this  heroic  world 
A  child,  before  she  had  gone  forth  to  prove 
That  she  herself  was  equal  to  the  world? 
Too  long  the  heirs  of  man  content  themselves 
With  a  divided  portion.     I  will  never 
Be  the  idle  ornament  of  time, 
Futile  and  pale  and  foreign  to  the  earth, 
Nor  with  a  weak  and  fluent  life  dilute 
The  heritage  of  those  bright  heroes  who 
Shall  yet  subdue  the  world! 


22 


CHILD  OF  THE  AMAZONS 

'I  love  that  law — 

0  Artemis,  thy  seeing  law — that  saith 
No  Amazon  shall  enter  motherhood 

Until  she  hath  performed  such  deeds,  and  wrought 
Such    impact    on    the    energetic   world, 
That  thou  canst  it  behold  and  name  her  thine. 
Grant  me,  O  Goddess  free,  that  I  may  burn 
And  kindle  thro'  some  drama  ere  I  die! 

'O  thou  divine  Intelligence,  where  thou 
Dost  wheel  thy  silver  chariot  along 
The  dark  perimeter  of  utmost  heaven, 
Lean  low  thine  ear  to  hear  my  resolution! 
No,  give  me  power  and  I  will  pray  to  thee 
A  prayer  that  dares  ascend,  and  like  a  sun 
Or  streaming  meteor,  greet  and  startle  thee! 

1  pray  that  I  shall  yet  defy  thee,  thou 
Far  Deity,  and  lay  the  regal  hand 

Of  man  upon  thy  law  to  alter  it; 

To  herald  the  far  age  when  men  shall  cease 

Their  tyranny,  Amazons  their  revolt. 


CHILD   OF  THE  AMAZONS 

Renouncing  each  a  sad  unnatural  dream, 
They  shall  go  forth  together  to  subdue 
Unto  their  symmetry  the  monstrous  world, 
And  with  the  night  lie  down  in  powerful  union! 

'Henceforth,  my  sovereign,  perfect  is  my  will 
To  do  thy  deeds  and  be  thy  Amazon — 
Though  I  postpone  unto  the  end  my  hope. 
For  if  it  is  an  excellence  to  bear, 
Then  is  it  a  thing  prior,  more  divine, 
To  be.    I  join  the  counsellors  of  war.' 


24 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 


TO  A  TAWNY  THRUSH 

PINE  spirit! 
Breath  and  voice  of  a  wild  glade! 
In  the  wild  forest  near  it, 
In  the  cool  hemlock  or  the  leafy  limb, 
Whereunder 

Thou  didst  run  and  wander 
Thro'  the  sun  and  shade, 
An  elvish  echo  and  a  shadow  dim, 
There  in  the  twilight  thou  dost  lift  thy  song, 
And  give  the  stilly  woods  a  silver  tongue. 
Out  of  what  liquid  is  thy  laughing  made? 
A  sister  of  the  water  thou  dost  seem, 
The  quivering  cataract  thou  singest  near, 
Whose  glistening  stream, 
Unto  the  listening  ear, 
Thou  dost  outrun  with  thy  cascade 
Of  music  beautiful  and  swift  and  clear — 
A  joy  unto  the  mournful  forest  given! 
As  when  afar 
A  travelling  star 


TO  A  TAWNY  THRUSH 

Across  our  midnight  races, 

A  moving  gleam  that  quickly  ceases, 

Lost  in  the  blue  black  abyss  of  heaven, 

So  doth  thy  light  and  silver  singing 

Start  and  thrill 

The  silence  round  thy  piney  hill, 

Unto  the  sober  hour  a  jewel  bringing — 

A  mystery — a  strain  of  rhythm  fleeing — 

A  vagrant  echo  winging 

Back  to  the  unuttered  theme  of  being! 


28 


COMING  SPRING 

ICE  is  marching  down  the  river, 
Gaily  out  to  sea! 

Sunbeams  o'er  the  snow-hills  quiver, 
Setting  torrents  free! 

Yellow  are  the  water-willows, 

Yellow  clouds  are  they, 
Rising  where  the  laden  billows 

Swell  along  their  way! 

Arrows  of  the  sun  are  flying! 

Winter  flees  the  light, 
And  his  chilly  horn  is  sighing 

All  the  moisty  night! 

Lovers  of  the  balmy  weather, 

Lovers  of  the  sun! 
Drifts  and  duty  melt  together — 

Get  your  labors  done! 


COMING     SPRING 

Ice  is  marching  down  the  river, 

Gaily  out  to  sea ! 
Sing  the  healthy-hearted  ever, 

Spring  is  liberty! 


DAISIES 

DAISIES,  daisies,  all  surprise! 
Open  wide  your  sunny  eyes! 
See  the  linnet  on  the  wing; 
See  the  crimson  feather! 
See  the  life  in  every  thing, 
Sun,  and  wind,  and  weather! 
Shadow  of  the  passer-by, 
Bare-foot  skipping  over, 
Meadow  where  the  heifers  lie, 
Butter-cup,  and  clover! 
All  is  vivid,  all  is  real! 
All  is  high  surprising! 
Ye  are  pure  to  see  and  feel; 
Ye  the  gift  are  prizing 
Men   and   gods   would    perish    for — 
Gods  with  all  their  thunder! — 
Could  they  have  the  thing  ye  are, 
Everlasting  wonder! 


SUMMER    SONG 

I    WANDER  on  the  sunny  lea, 
Where  yellow-birds  sing  liberty, 
And  briar-roses  bless  the  air 
With  gracefulness  and  fragrance  rare; 
The  sky  is  very  blue  to  see, 
A  living  blue  so  near  to  thee, 
And  clouds  caress  the  meadow  fair, 
Trailing  rapid  shadows  there. 
O  come  and  wander  on  the  lea! 
O  wander  in  the  sun  with  me! 

Ay,  thou  art  with  me,  gypsy  lass, 

Noiseless  as  the  airs  that  pass; 

Slender  as  the  shadow  things 

The  rose-vine  on  the  meadow  flings, 

Graceful  as  the  wavy  grass; 

And  tender  too,  as  tender  as 

The  trembling  of  the  she-bird's  wings, 

Whose  golden  little  lover  sings. 

A  happy  song  my  wand'ring  has, 

For  thou  art  with  me,  gypsy  lass! 

32 


ADVENTURE 

IN  dreadfu'  jungles  I  ha'e  never  been, 
Nor  seen  at  e'en  the  tiger's  stripes  a-glowing; 
But  i'  the  bracken  by  the  purling  linn, 
Mine  e'en  ha'e  seen  the  tiger-lily  growing. 


33 


DIOGENES 

A  HUT,  and  a  tree, 
And  a  hill  for  me, 
And    a    piece    of    a   weedy    meadow. 

I'll  ask  no  thing, 
Of  God  or  King, 
But  to  clear  away  His  shadow. 


34 


AUTUMN    LANDSCAPE 

THE  sad  light  sayeth  how  all  Autumn  grieves, 
And  how  this  rainy  mist  in  heaven  high 
Doth  wake  the  sorrowings  that  deepest  lie. 
Behold  the  silent  forms  shorn  of  their  leaves, 
The  elm,  the  maple,  and  the  antique  oak — 
With  gestures  sorrowful  they  pray  the  sky. 
Behold  the  rain-pools  where  the  brown  leaves  soak, 
And  the  same  mournful  branches  mirrored  lie. 
See  how  the  sensuous  mist,  cool-smelling,  slips 
Like  a  wilful  garment  down  from  those  wet  limbs 
Which  will  be  gracious  to  the  singing  lips 
Of  the  expected  wind ! — For  he  will  come ! 
I  hear  him  waken  as  the  twilight  dims, 
And  my  heart  quickens,  and  my  words  are  dumb! 


35 


IN    REMEMBRANCE 

COULD  I  bestow  on  you  all  blessings — O, 
As  bright  and  many  as  the  glittering  sky 
Of  night  in  his  out-reaching  arms  can  hold, 
They  would  not  tell,  they  would  but  ache  to  tell, 
The  all-wishing  love  in  sadness  of  this  hour. 
There  is  but  one  bright  gift,  the  gift  is  yours. 
You  too  can  come  alone  unto  these  hills, 
The  streamy  woods  and  meadows  wandering, 
You  too  can  come  alone  unto  these  hills, 
And  drink,  drink  from  their  heart  of  memory 
The  sweetest  sorrow  that  e'er  touched  the  world. 


SUMMER    SUNDAY 

BORNE  on  the  low  lake  wind  there  floats  to  me, 
Out  of  the  distant  hill,  a  sigh  of  bells, 
Mystic,  worshipful,  almost  unheard, 
As  tho'  the  past  should  answer  me, — and  I 
In  pagan  solitude  bow  down  my  head. 


37 


SONNET 

THE  passions  of  a  child  attend  his  dreams. 
He  lives,  loves,  hopes,  remembers,  is  forlorn, 
For  legendary  creatures,  whom  he  deems 
Not  too  unreal — until  one  golden  morn 
The  gracious,  all-awaking  sun  shines  in 
Upon  his  tranquil  pillow,  and  his  eyes 
Are  touched,  and  opened  greatly,  and  begin 
To  drink  reality  with  rich  surprise. 

I  loved  the  impetuous  souls  of  ancient  story — 
Heroic  characters,  kings,  queens,  whose  wills 
Like  empires  rose,  achieved,  and  fell,  in  glory. 
I  was  a  child — until  the  radiant  dawn, 
Thy  beauty,  woke  me.     O  thy  spirit  fills 
The  stature  of  those  heroes,  they  are  gone! 


TO   A    MEADOW    LARK 

WHEN  the  enkindling  spring  upon  the  lea 
Was  quenched  with  water,  and  the  rainy  throng 
Of  clouds  perpetual  had  drowned  her  song — 
Still  thou  didst  lift  thy  heart  and  float  to  me, 
Over  the  mist,  thy  lonely  melody! 
O  swell  again  the  throat,  and  thrill  the  tongue, 
And  rouse,  and  ravish  with  thy  passion  young, 
The  adoring  air  that  drinks  thine  ecstasy ! 
She  hides  her  beauty  in  the  wavy  shroud 
Of  April's  swift  and  half-translucent  cloud — 
My  love  is  lost  in  a  more  heavy  shadow! 
My  love  is  buried  in  the  arms  of  grief! 
O  send  to  her  across  the  mourning  meadow 
That  brighter  sorrow  thine — that  music  brief! 


39 


TO  AN   EARLY  RISER 

THE  eastern  hill  hath  scarce  unveiled  his  head, 
And  the  deliberate  sky  hath  but  begun 
To  meditate  upon  a  future  sun, 
When  thou  dost  rise  from  thy  impatient  bed. 
Thy  morning  prayer  unto  the  stars  is  said. 
And  not  unlike  a  child,  the  penance  done 
Of  sleep,  thou  goest  to  thy  serious  fun, 
Exuberant — yet  with  a  whisper  tread! 

And  when  that  lord  doth  to  the  world  appear, 
The  jovial  sun,  he  lea^s  on  his  old  hill, 
And  levels  forth  to  thee  a  golden  smile — 
Thee  in  his  garden,  where  each  warming  year 
Thou  toilest  in  all  joy  with  him,  to  fill 
And  flood  the  soil  with  Summer  for  a  while. 


40 


TO  THE  LITTLE  BED  AT  NIGHT 

GOOD-NIGHT,  little  bed,  with  your  patient  white 
pillow, 

Your  light  little  spread,  and  your  blanket  of  yellow! 
I  wonder  what  leaves  you  so  pensive  to-night — 
The  breezes  are  tender,  the  stars  are  so  bright, 
I  should  think  you  would  wrinkle  a  little  and  smile, 
And  be  happy  to  think  we  can  sleep  for  a  while! 
Are  you  waiting  for  something?    Or  are  you  just  seeming 
To  listen  so  breathlessly,  hushed,  as  though  dreaming 
A  form  that  is  fresher  than  breezes  of  light, 
A  coming  more  precious  than  stars  to  the  night, 
Who  shall  mould  you  as  soft  as  the  Kreast  of  a  billow, 
And  crown  with  all  beauty  your  patient  white  pillow? 
Good-night,  little  bed — are  you  lonely  so  late? 
We  will  lie  down  together,  together  we'll  wait. 


ONE    DAY    IN    THE   YEAR 

HOW  suddenly  the  day  is  warm  when  Winter  yields, 
And  Spring  blows  her  first  breath  over  the  lonely 
fields! 
The  drifts  are  sinking, 

The  soaked  earth  is  drinking 
Their  coolness  in. 
And  all  farm  sounds  begin; 
All  fowls  and  cattle  their  strange  praise  renew. 
And  a  more  quiet  worship  wakes  in  you. 
Have  you  cried  unto  memories  fleeing  so  fast? 
This  day  they  will  answer  you  out  of  the  past! 


TO  THE  ASCENDING   MOON 

RISE,  rise,  aerial  creature,  fill  the  sky 
With  supreme  wonder,  and  the  bleak  earth  wash 
With  mystery!     Pale,  pale  enchantress,  steer 
Thy  flight  high  up  into  the  purple  blue, 
Where  faint  the  stars  beholding!    Rain  from  there 
Thy  lucent  influence  upon  this  sphere! 

I  fear  thee,  sacred  mother  of  the  mad! 
With  thy  deliberate  magic  thou  of  old 
Didst  soothe  the  perplexed  brains  of  idiots  whipped, 
And  scared,  and  lacerated  for  their  cure — 
Ay,  thou  didst  spread  the  balm  of  sleep  on  them, 
Give  to  their  minds  a  curved  emptiness 
Of  silence  like  the  heaven  thou  dwellest  in; 
Yet  didst  thou  also,  with  thy  rayless  light, 
Make  mad  the  surest,  draw  from  their  smooth  beds 
The  very  sons  of  Prudence,  maniacs 
To  wander  forth  among  the  bushes,  howl 
Abroad  like  eager  wolves,  and  snatch  the  air! 
Oft  didst  thou  watch  them  prowl  among  the  tombs 
Inviolate  of  the  patient  dead,  toiling 


43 


TO   THE   ASCENDING    MOON 

In  deeds  obscure  with  stealthy  ecstasy, 
And  thou  didst  palely  peer  among  them,  and 
Expressly  shine  into  their  unhinged  eyes! 
I  fear  thee,  languid  mother  of  the  mad ! 
For  thou  hast  still  thy  alien  influence; 
Thou  dost  sow  forth  thro'  all  the  fields  and  hills, 
And  in  all  chambers  of  the  natural  earth, 
A  difference  most  strange  and  luminous. 
This  tree,  that  was  the  river  sycamore, 
Is  in  thy  pensive  effluence  become 
But  the  conceived  essence  of  a  tree, 
Upright  luxuriance  thought  upon — the  stream 
Is  liquid  timeless  motion  undefined— 
The  world's  a  gesture  dim!     Like  rapturous  thought, 
Which  can  the  rigorous  concrete  obscure 
Unto  annihilation,  and  create 
Upon  the  dark  a  universal  vision, 
Thou — even  on  this  bold  and  local  earth, 
The  site  of  the  obtruding  actual — 
Thou  dost  erect  in  awful  purity 
The  filmy  architecture  of  all  dreams. 

44 


TO   THE   ASCENDING    MOON 

And  they  are  perfect.     Thou  dost  shed  like  light 

Perfection,  and  a  vision  give  to  man 

Of  things  superior  to  the  tough  act, 

Existence,  and  almost  co-equals  of 

His  own  unnamed,  and  free,  and  infinite  wish! 

Phantoms,  phantoms  of  the  transfixed  mind! 

I  fear  thee,  mother  of  the  sacred  mad, 

For  thou  with  beauty  dost  awake  in  me 

Such  yearning  as  but  God  laid  hold  upon, 

Or  mania  laying  hold,  can  satisfy. 

Pour  down,  O  moon,  upon  the  listening  earth — 
The  earth  unthinking,  thy  still  eloquence! 
Shine  in  the  children's  eyes.     They  drink  thy  light, 
And   laugh   in   innocence  of  sorcery, 
And  love  thy  silver.     I  laugh  not,  nor  gaze 
With  half-closed  eyes  upon  the  awakened  night. 
Nay,  oft  when  thou  art  hailed  above  the  hill, 
I  lean  not  forth,  I  hide  myself  in  tasks, 
Even  to  the  blunt  comfort  of  routine 
I  cling,  to  drowse  my  soul  against  thy  charm, 
Yearning  for  thee,  ethereal  miracle! 

45 


EARTH'S   NIGHT 


SOMBRE, 
Sombre  is  the  night,  the  stars'  light  is  dimmed 
With  smoky  exhalations  of  the  earth, 
Whose  ancient  voice  is  lifted  on  the  wind 
In  ceaseless  elegies  and  songs  of  tears. 
O  earth,  I  hear  thee  mourning  for  thy  dead! 
Thou  art  waving  the  long  grass  over  thy  graves! 
Murmuring  over  all  thy  resting  children, 
That  have  run  and  wandered  and  gone  down 
Upon  thy  bosom — Thou  wilt  mourn  for  him 
Who  looketh  now  a  moment  on  these  stars, 
And  in  the  moving  boughs  of  this  dark  night 
Heareth  the  murmurous  sorrow  of  thy  heart. 


IN   A   DUNGEON   OF   RUSSIA 

Scene:    A  cell  leading  to  the  gallows. 
Characters:    A  noble  lady,  who  is  an  assassin. 
A  common  murderer. 

The  chilling  gray,  a  ghost  of  mortal  dawn, 

Has  touched  them,  and  they  know  the  hour.    The  guard 

Shifts  guiltily  his  shoes  upon  the  stone; 

They  raise  their  eyes  in  languid  terror.    But 

The  moment  passes,  and  'tis  still  again — 

Save,  in  some  piteous  way  she  moves  her  throat. 

There  is  a  wandering  of  her  burning  eyes, 

Until  they  fix,  and  strangely  stare  upon 

The  face  of  her  companion.    They  would  plead 

Against  the  heavy  horror  of  his  look; 

For  not  an  idiot's  corpse  could  strike  the  soul 

More  sick  with  wonder. 

*O  look  up  and  speak 

To  me!' — Her  voice  is  startling  to  the  walls — 
'Speak  any  word  against  this  gloom!' 

He  moves 
A  blood-deserted  eye,  but  answers  not. 


47 


IN    A    DUNGEON    OF   RUSSIA 
'Tell  if  'twas  cold  and  filthy  where  you  lay!' 

'Ay,  filthy  cold!     'Twas  cold  enough  to  keep 
The  carrion  from  rotting  on  these  bones! 
They  never  kill  us — never  'til  we  hang!' 

He  spoke  a  brutal  tongue  against  the  gloom. 
And  there  was  heard  far  off  a  step,  a  voice. 
The  guard  stood  up;  a  quiver  moved  her  limbs. 

'Give  me  some  simpler  word.     Give  me  your  hand 

In  comradeship.     We  die  together — and 

The  while  we  breathe — we  are  each  other's  world.' 

'No — not  your  world,  my  lady!     Though  we  die, 
I  have  no  grace  to  give  a  hand  to  you! 
My  hand  is  thick  and  dirty — yours  is  pale!' 

'You  say  "my  lady"  in  the  very  tomb! 
Will  even  death  not  laugh  this  weakness  off 
Your  tongue?    To  think  nobility  abides 

48 


IN    A    DUNGEON    OF    RUSSIA 

This  hour!    My  lady!    O,  it  is  a  curse 

That  whips  me  at  the  grave!     I  was  not  born — 

Can  I  not  even  die,  a  human  soul?' 

'Ay,  you  can  die!     And  better — you  can  kill! 

'Tis  not  your  ladyship — the  gallows'  rope 

Snaps  that  to  nothing!     Death?     Not  death  alone 

Can  laugh  at  your  nobility — I  laugh! 

No — not  your  piteous  ladyship — that  dies! 

It  is  your  crime  that  daunts  me! — That  shall  live! 

To  plant,  with  this  fine  delicate  little  hand, 

Small,  heavy  death  into  the  very  heart 

Of  time-defended  tyranny — that  lives! 

The  future  is  all  life  for  you!     For  me — 

A  glassy  look,  a  yell  into  the  air, 

And  I  am  gone!     No  life  springs  up  from  me! 

I  am  the  dirt  that  drank  the  drippings  of 

A  guilty  murder — that  is  why  I  sit 

Like  sickness  here,  and  goad  you  with  my  shame! 

I'll  take  your  hand!     I'll  tell  you  I  was  starved, 


49 


IN   A   DUNGEON   OF   RUSSIA 

Wrecked,  shattered  to  the  bones  with  drunken  hunger, 

And  I  killed  for  gold!     I'll  tell  you  this — 

Your  crime  shall  live  to  blot  the  memory 

Of  mine,  and  me,  and  all  the  insane  tribe 

Of  us,  who  having  strength  in  poverty 

Will  not  lie  down  and  starve — blot  off  the  world 

Our  having  been — the  crime  of  our  killed  hopes, 

And  gradual  infamy!' 

The  fever  gleam 

Was  in  his  eyes — the  future!    There  it  burned 
A  moment,  while  he  stood  to  see  the  door 
Swing  darkly  open,  and  the  guard  salute. 
She  stood  beside  him.     And  together,  in 
High  union  of  their  fainting  hearts,  they  faced 
The  hour  that  brought  them  to  their  level  graves. 


CONVENTIONAL    LIFE 

MIDNIGHT  is  come, 
And  thinly  in  the  deepness  of  the  gloom 
Truth  rises  startle-eyed  out  of  a  tomb, 
And  we  are  dumb. 

A  death-bell  tolls, 

And  we  still  shudder  round  the  too  smooth  bed, 
For  Truth  makes  pallid  watch  above  the  dead, 

Freezing  our  souls! 

But  day  returns, 

Light  and  the  garish  life,  and  we  are  brave, 
For  Truth  sinks  wanly  down  into  her  grave. 

Yet  the  heart  yearns. 


IN    MARCH 

ON  a  soaked  fence-post  a  little  blue-backed  bird, 
Opening  her  sweet  throat,  has  stirred 
A  million  music-ripples  in  the  air 
That  curl  and  circle  everywhere. 
They  break  not  shallow  at  my  ear, 
But  quiver  far  within.    Warm  days  are  near! 


THE   BURIAL  OF  DE   SOTO  * 

WOODS  and  the  cry  of  wild  things  and  the  soli 
tary   stars, 

And  no  wind  on  the  black  river's  bosom — 
Save  what  is  stirred  by  your  slow  bier 
That  I  see  moving  there,  O  wanderer! 
And  yet  there  floats  to  my  dim  sense  the  cool  new  smell 

of  the  earth  about  your  body. 
Who  are  they  two  that  hold  up  smoky  flames  over  the 

envious  water? 

Who  are  they  two  that  stoop,  with  bending  elbows, 
Moving  with  a  prayer, 
And  lift  you,  and  lower  you  again, 
And  stand  for  an  eternal  moment  eyeing  the  water  while 

it  grows  still, 

And  while  you  waver  dimly  down  to  your  cool  station 
In  the  oozy  floor  of  that  inconstant  tomb? 
They  snuff  their  torches  in  the  mute  water, 
Gathering  to  them  their  reflections, 
And  they  steal  with  noiseless  paddles  toward  the  trees. 

*  His  person  was  feared  by  the  Indians,  and,  in  order  that 
they  should  not  know  of  his  death,  his  body  was  exhumed  and 
sunk  secretly  at  night  into  the  Mississippi  River. 

53 


HAIL   TO    OCTOBER! 

HAIL  to  October!    Healthy  is  the  air ! 
The  flying  sky!    And  gay  the  dying  leaves! 
Soulless  and  free,  the  winds  and  waters  and  the  running 

tunes 

Of  the  brave  days  of  thee,  O  Autumn! 
Songs,  and  laughter,  and  no  thought  beyond  the  song! 
No  rest  for  retrospect,  no  hope  to  harbor  fear! 
Only  the  light  and  liberty  of  life,  and  death,  and  motion 
Onward  uncontrollable,  are  thine! 
Thou  art  the  wind  along  the  road,  the  shining  trees! 
Thou  art  the  stealthy  rustle  thro'  the  forest! 
Thou  art  the  cry  of  eagles  and  the  shaking  of  the  pine ! 
The  racing  cohort  of  the  northern  geese, 
A  sounding  arrow — 
Thou  art  the  flight  of  Summer! 
The  expectancy  of  Spring! 
The  swift  upbuilding  of  a  tempest  in  the  sun,  the  moving 

thunder 

And  the  flying  shadows  of  the  wings  of  clouds 
Across  the  purple  mountain !    O  thou  art  all  distance,  and 


54 


HAIL  TO   OCTOBER! 

Dim  vista,  where  the  eye  grazes  and  takes  sustenance  of 

space ! 
There  are  no  bounds  for  thee,  no  laws  for  thee,  no  sense 

for  thee 
But  glory  in  the  unutterable  and  onward  sweep  of  thine 

own  being! 


55 


SONNET 

AS  the  crag  eagle  to  the  zenith's  height 
Wings  his  pursuit  in  his  exalted  hour, 
Of  her  the  tempest-reared,  whose  airy  power 
Of  plume  and  passion  challenged!  his  flight 
To  that  wild  altitude  where  they  unite, 
In  mutual  tumultuous  victory 
And  the  swift  sting  of  nature's  ecstasy, 
Their  shuddering  pinions  and  their  skyward  might- 
As  they,  the  strong,  to  the  full  height  of  heaven 
Bear  up  that  joy  which  to  the  strong  is  given, 
Thus,  thus  do  we,  whose  stormy  spirits  quiver 
In  the  bold  air  of  utter  liberty, 
Clash  equal  at  our  highest,  I  and  thee, 
Unconquered  and  unconquering  forever! 


THE  SAINT  GAUDENS  STATUES 

[Exhibited  at  the  Metropolitan  Museum  after  the  sculptor's 
death.  The  figures  alluded  to  are  the  standing  statue  of  Abra 
ham  Lincoln,  and  the  monument  in  memory  of  Mrs.  Henry 
Adams,  the  original  of  which  is  in  the  Rock  Creek  Cemetery 
at  Washington.] 

POET,  thy  dreams  are  grateful  to  the  air 
And  the  light  loves  them.     Tho'  they  murmur  not, 
Their  carven  stillness  is  a  music  rare, 
And  like  the  song  of  one  whose  tongue  hath  caught 
The  clear  ethereal  essence  of  his  thought. 

I  hear  the  talkers  come,  the  changing  throngs 
That  with  the  fashions  of  a  day  surround 
Thy  visions,  and  I  hear  them  quell  their  tongues, 
And  hush  their  querulous  shoes  upon  the  ground. 
Thy  dreams  are  with  the  crown  of  silence  crowned — 

Though  they  feel  not  the  glowing  diadem, 
Who  sleep  for  aye  in  their  cool  shapes  of  stone. 
Nor  ever  will  the  sunlight  waken  them, 
Nor  ever  will  they  turn  their  eyes  and  moan, 
To  think  that  their  brief  Poet's  life  is  gone. 


57 


THE    SAINT    GAUDENS    STATUES 

The  tender  and  the  lofty  soul  is  gone, 

Who  eyed  them  forth  from  darkness,  and  confessed 

His  spirit's  motion  in  unmoving  stone. 

His  praise  upon  no  mortal  tongue  doth  rest; 

By  these  unwhispering  lips  it  is  expressed. 

Soon  will  the  ample  arms  of  night  withdraw 
Her  shuffling  children  from  the  twilit  hall — 
From  that  heroic  presence,  in  dim  awe 
Of  wrhom  the  dark  withholds  a  while  her  pall, 
And  leaves  him  luminous  above  them  all. 

Then  are  ye  lost  in  darkness  and  alone, 
Ye  ghostly  spirits!    And  the  moment  rare 
Doth  quicken  that  too  sad  and  nameless  stone, 
To  move  her  robe,  and  spill  her  sable  hair, 
And  be  in  silence  lost  upon  the  air. 

For  she  is  one  writh  the  dim  glimmering  hour, 
And  the  white  spirits  beautiful  and  still, 
And  the  veiled  memory  of  the  vanished  power 
That  moulded  them,  the  high  and  infinite  will 
That  earth  begets  and  earth  doth  not  fulfil. 

58 


AT   THE   AQUARIUM 

SERENE  the  silver  fishes  glide, 
Stern-lipped,  and  pale,  and  wonder-eyed! 
As  through  the  aged  deeps  of  ocean, 
They  glide  with  wan  and  wavy  motion! 
They  have  no  pathway  where  they  go, 
They  flow  like  water  to  and  fro. 
They  watch  with  never  winking  eyes, 
They  watch  with  staring,  cold  surprise, 
The  level  people  in  the  air, 
The  people  peering,  peering  there, 
Who  wander  also  to  and  fro, 
And  know  not  why  or  where  they  go, 
Yet  have  a  wonder  in  their  eyes, 
Sometimes  a  pale  and  cold  surprise. 


59 


THE  THOUGHT  OF  PROTAGORAS 

MY  memory  holds  a  tragic  hour  to  prove, 
Or    paint    with    bleeding    stroke,    the    ancient 

thought 

That  will  to  sorrow  move  all  minds  forever — 
All  that  love  to  know.     It  was  the  hour 
When  lamps  wink  yellow  in  the  winter  twilight, 
And  the  hurriers  go  home  to  rest; 
And  we  whose  task  was  meditation  rose 
And  wound  a  murmuring  way  among  the  books 
And  effigies,  the  fading  fragrance,  of 
A  vaulted  library — a  place  to  me 
Most  like  a  dim  vast  cavernous  brain,  that  holds 
All  the  wrorld  hath  of  musty  memory 
In  sombre  convolutions  that  are  dying. 
There  at  our  faithful  table  every  day, 
In  the  great  shadow  of  this  dissolution, 
We  would  speak  of  things  eternal,  things 
Divine,  that  change  not.    And  we  spoke  with  one 
Who  was  a  leader  of  the  way  to  them; 
A  man  born  regal  to  the  realms  of  thought. 


60 


THE   THOUGHT  OF   PROTAGORAS 

High,  pale,  and  sculptural  his  brow, 

And  high  his  concourse  with  the  kings  of  old, 

Plato,  and  Aristotle,  and  the  Jew — 

The  bold,  mild  Jew  who  in  his  pensive  chamber 

Fell  in  love  with  God.     It  was  of  him, 

And  that  unhungering  love  of  his,  he  told  us; 

And  with  soft  and  stately  melody, 

The  scholar's  eloquence,  he  lifted  us 

Sublime  above  the  very  motions  of 

Our  mortal  being,  and  we  walked  with  him 

The  heights  of  meditation  like  the  gods. 

I  have  no  memory  surpassing  this. 

And  yet — strange  pity  of  our  natures  or 

Of  his — there  ran  a  rumor  poisonous. 

Scandal  breeds  her  brood  in  the  house  of  prayer. 

And  we,  to  whom  these  were  like  hours  of  prayer, 

We  whispered  things  not  all  philosophy 

When  he  was  gone.    We  knew  but  little  where 

He  went,  or  whence  he  came,  but  this  we  knew, 

That  there  was  other  love  in  him  than  what 


61 


THE  THOUGHT  OF  PROTAGORAS 

He  taught  us — love  that  makes  more  quickly  pale! 

Ay,  even  he  was  tortured  with  the  lure 

Of  mortal  motion  in  the  eyes!     And  lips 

And  limbs  that  were  not  warm  to  him  alone 

Were  warm  to  him.     He  drank  mortality. 

Dim  care,  the  ghost  of  retribution,  sat 

In  pallor  on  his  brow,  and  made  us  whisper 

In  the  shadow  of  our  meditations. 

Faintly,  faintly  did  we  feel  the  hour 

Advancing — livid  painting  of  a  thought! 

He  spoke  of  Substance, — strangely — on  that  day — 

Eternal,  self-existent,  infinite — 

He  seemed,  I  thought,  to  rest  upon  the  name. 

And  as  he  spoke  there  came  on  me  that  trance 

Of  inattention,  when  the  words  would  seem 

To  drop  their  magic  of  containing  things, 

And,  by  a  shift,  become  but  things  themselves — 

Mere  partial  motions  of  the  flesh  of  lips. 

I  watched  these  motions,  watched  them  blandly,  till 

I  knew  I  watched  them,  and  that  roused  me,  and 


62 


THE  THOUGHT  OF   PROTAGORAS 

I  heard  him  saying,  'Things,  and  moving  things, 
Are  merely  modes  of  but  one  attribute, 
Of  what  is  infinite  in  attributes, 

And  may  be  called '    He  spoke  to  there,  and  then- 

His  pencil,  the  thin  pencil,  dropped — A  crack 

Behind  us — A  quick  step  among  the  books — 

His  hand,  his  head,  his  body  all  collapsed 

And  fell,  or  settled  utterly,  before 

The  fact  came  on  us — he  was  shot  and  killed. 

But  little  I  remember  after  that. 

What  matters  it?    The  deed,  the  quick  red  deed 

Was  done,  and  all  his  speculations  vanished 

Like  a  sound. 


LEIF    ERICSON* 

THRO'  the  murk  of  the  ocean  of  history  northward 
and  far, 
I   descry  thee,  O  Sailor!     Thy  deed  like  the  dive  of  a 

star 
Doth    startle    the    ages    of    darkness    thro'    which    it    is 

hurled, 

Doth  flash,  and  flare  out,  and  is  gone  from  the  eyes  of 
the  world! 

What  watchers  beheld  thee,  and  heralding  followed  thy 

lead, 

Or  bugled  the  nations  into  the  track  of  thy  deed? 
What   continent    soundeth   thy   name,   what   people    thy 

praise  ? 

Who  sendeth   the  signal   of  gratitude  back  to   the  days 
When  thou  in  thy  boat  didst  put  forth  from  the  world, 

and  defy 
Infinity,  ignorance,  tempest,  and  ocean,  and  sky? 

*  Lelf  Ericson,  the  Norse  adventurer,  sailed  to  America  500 
years  before  Columbus. 

64 


LEIF   ERICSON 

No,  history  brags  not  of  God,  nor  doth  history  brag 
Of  thee,  Sailor,  who  carried  thy  sail  and  thy  sea-colored 

flag 

Clear  over  His  seas,  drove  into  His  mystery  old 
The  prow  of  thy  sixty-foot  skerry,  whose  quivering  hold 
Could  dip  but  a  cupful  out  of  His  watery  wrath, 
That  stormed  thee,   and   snatched  at  thy  bowsprit,   and 

licked  up  thy  path! 

When  mythical  rumor  sky-carried  ran  over  the  earth, 
With  the  whisper  of  lands  that  were  dreamed  of  beyond 

the  red  birth 
Of  the  west-wind,  the  blood  of  thy  body  took  running 

fire 
To  launch  and  be  swift  o'er  the  sea  as  a  man's  desire! 

O  rare  is  the  northern  morning  that  shineth  for  thee! 
A  million  silvering  crests  on  the  cold  blue  sea — 
And  the  wind  drives  in  from  the  jubilant  sea  to  the  land, 
And,  catching  thy  laughter,  it  tosses  the  cloak   in  thy 
hand, 

6s 


LEIF   ERICSON 

As  thou  goest  forth  to  thy  sails  in  the  frosty  air, 
Where  a  thousand  press  round  thee  with  awe  and  a  wan 
dering  prayer. 

And  they  that  stand  with  thee — tumultuous-hearted  they 

stand! 
They  bend  at  thy  word — I  hear  the  boat  sing  on  the 

sand — 
And  they  slip  to  their  oars  as  the  boat  leaps  aloft  on  a 

wave, 
With  thee  at  the  windy  helm,  joyfully  brave! 

The  depth  of  the  billows  is  awful,  the  depth  of  the  sky 

Is  silent  as  God.    Silent  the  dark  on  high. 

Naught  sings  to  thy  heart  save  thy  heart  and  the  wind, 

the  wild  giant 

Of  ocean,  agrin  in  the  darkness,  who  rattles  defiant 
A  laugh  through  thy  rigging,  and  howls  from  the  clouds 

at  thee, 
And  moans  in  a  mimic  of  pain  and  a  truculent  glee! 


66 


LEIF   ERICSON 

Still  stern  I  behold  thee,   thy  stature  dim  through  the 

dark, 
Unmoved,    unreleasing    the    helm    of    thy    storm-driven 

bark. 

'O  God  of  our  fathers,  give  signs  to  our  sea-worn  eyes! 
Give  sight  to  Thy  sailors!     Give  but  the  sun  to  arise 
In  the  morn  on  an  island  pale  in  the  haze  of  the  west! 
O  beam  of  the  Star  in  the  North,  is  thy  only  behest 
To  gesture  me  onward  eternally  unto  no  shore 
Of  these  high  and  wild  waters,  famed  for  their  hunger 

of  yore? 

Then  give  to  thy  sailor  for  life  the  courage  of  death, 
To  encounter  the  taunt  of  this    wind    with    a    rougher 

breath 

Of  gigantic  contempt  in  the  soul  for  where  and  when, 
So  it  be  onward  impetuous,  living,  onward  again! 
He  saileth  safe  who  saileth  with  death  on  board, 
He  flieth  a  laughing  sail  in  the  wrath  of  the  Lord!' 
So  sang  thy  heart  to  thy  heart,  and  so  to  the  swinging  sea 
In  a  lull  of  the  wind,  the  song  of  a  spirit  free! 


LEIF   ERICSON 

Sustained  adventurer,  lover  of  distance  divine, 
Pursuing  thy  love  forever  tho'  never  thine — 
O  sun-tanned  king  with  thy  blue  eyes  over  the  sea — 
Who  hath  the  living  strength  to  worship  thee? 

Not  they  that  act  with  a  sanction,  and  move  by  a  rule, 
^/ 

And  lean  on  a  theory — theory  saveth  the  fool! 

He  asks  for  no  map  of  the  universe,  pointer,  and  plan, 

Who  hears  the  rough  ocean  challenge  the  roughness  of 

man 

To  the  deeps!    Who  feeleth  existence  his  spirit  defy, 
For  brief  or  eternal,  standeth  not  pondering  by! 
No,  Science  shall  never  sing  thee,  nor  ever  they 
Whose  cry  is  Utility — never  the  kings  of  to-day! 
The  profit  of  thy  great  sailing  to  thee  was  small  ; 
And  unto  the  world  it  was  nothing — a  man,  that  was  all, 
And  his  deed  like  a  star,  to  flame  in  the  dull  old  sky 
Of  the  story  of  apathy,  age  after  decorous  age  going  by! 
Grapes  were  thy  import,  winey  and  luscious  to  eat, 
Grapes,  and  a  story — 'The  dew  in  the  west  was  sweet!' 

68 


LEIF   ERICSON 

Wine  of  the  distance  ever  the  reddest  seems, 

And   sweet   is  the  world   to   the   dreamer   and   doer   of 

dreams ! 

Weigh  them,  ye  pale-headed  merchants — Little  ye  know! 
Compute,  ye  desk-dwellers,  ye  will  not  measure  him  so, 
For  ye  know  only  knowledge,  ye  know  not  the  drive  of 

the  will 

That  brought  it  with  passion  to  birth.     It  driveth  still 
Through  the  hearts  of  the  kindred  of  Earth  the  forward 

fleeing, 

The  kin  of  the  stormy  soul  at  the  helm  of  all-being! 
Sailors,  unreefed,  and  high-masted,  and  wet,  and  free, 
Who  sail  in  the  love  of  the  billows,  whose  port  is  the 

sea — 

They  sing  thee,  O  Leif  the  Lucky,  they  sing  thee  sublime, 
And  launch  with  thee,  glad  as  with  God,  on  the  ocean 

of  time! 


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